


The End Where We Begin

by katebishoop



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Future Fic, Healing, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kid Fic, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 21:57:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6095281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katebishoop/pseuds/katebishoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“For once in my life.” When she says this, he knows she doesn’t mean their time in space. They hadn’t really started living until they started dying. “For the rest of my life, I just want to do something insignificant."</p><p>He feels her statement deep within his bones, between the cracks of his broken heart.</p><p>He sticks out his hand. “Together.”</p><p>This time he isn’t asking her to come back to all her ghosts, he’s asking her to let them go. To let him go with her.</p><p>Clarke turns back to him. They are broken, battered things; they have caused enough damage in this life, and the next. They are both done with playing the role of Atlas.</p><p>She takes his hand.</p><p>-</p><p>Written before 3x06.</p><p>[Nominee for Best Family Fiction in the 2016 Bellarke Fanfiction Awards]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End Where We Begin

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to [Lana](http://marauders-groupie.tumblr.com) for beta-ing this and just generally being all-around amazing and wonderful ＼(^▽^✿)ノ

_Sometimes we don't learn from our mistakes_  
_Sometimes we've no choice but to walk away, away_  
_Tried to break my heart_  
_Well it's broke_  
_Tried to hang me high_  
_Well I'm choked_  
_Wanted rain on me_  
_Well I'm soaked_  
_Soaked to the skin  
_ _It's the end where I begin_

* * *

There is a moment, a brief moment, when the world stands still.

It is during the final battle - a paradox, an oxymoron; the battle, the war will never end, humanity will never learn - when it happens. Bellamy’s axe collides with a masked head, taking off the ear and part of the skull with it. The air is trapped in his lungs, a breath on pause; the storm, the war, is raging around him but he can’t feel a thing - no rain, no blood, splattering on his skin.

His eyes find Clarke, across the field on higher ground. Her knife goes through an enemy’s neck, and he can see the exact moment where she enters this in-between with him.

It only lasts for a moment, a brief moment, and they are thrust into the fray again.

* * *

The battle is over, and they say the war’s been won.

It doesn’t feel like a victory, it feels like a funeral. They’ve lost to much to be able to celebrate.

As he walks through the carnage, he can see Miller, crying over his father’s lifeless body, Monty putting his good arm around his friend’s shoulders. He sees Monroe’s body - the spear still in her gut, pinning her to the ground - and Bellamy crouches down beside her to remove it and close her eyes. He doesn’t do the same for Pike.

Despite knowing that she wasn’t there - that she wouldn’t have come back, that she was gone for good - he still searched for his sister’s face among the mixture of the living and the dead.

Kane claps a hand on his shoulder when he passes. There’s a look the man’s eyes that Bellamy recognizes, that he knows all too well. He looks as if he’s about to say something, but he can’t. Kane just drops his hand and marches on.

Bellamy walks through the wreckage, to the place where he had last seen her. That hill, across the field. He spots her, speaking with Aden, Indra hovering behind.

They see her as Wanheda. Not the Wanheda, a Wanheda. A thing, a tool.

Medusa was a girl, a mere mortal girl, but she had put her trust in the god of the sea and was betrayed. Medusa was a pawn in someone else’s game, and the goddess of wisdom punished her for it.

She was turned into a monster, something to be scorned and feared. She was a legend, a prize to be won. Hunted for her head, for her power that could bring down mountains and turn the greatest of warriors to stone.

But Bellamy never saw her as a monster. He was blind to the curse that had been thrust upon her. He was blind to the snakes that were braided into her hair.

He didn't see her as Medusa, or Wanheda, he saw her as Clarke. Because that’s who she was under all that warpaint - not some monster covered in scales and serpents.

If only Clarke could see that, too.

But he knows she has trouble, because he does too. She never saw him as a monster or a villain - a jerk at first, yes, but never a murderer, a _killer_ \- but he never believed her. He saw the worst of himself, he still does, but she never gave up. Even after everything that he has done, she still tries to make him see the good in himself.

He needs to return the favor, to make her see the good in herself, now that this was all over.

Indra stiffens when he approaches; he sees her hand move to her shoulder on instinct, where he had put a bullet in her. Aden pays him no attention. The boy looking a dozen years older than when Bellamy first saw him, after Lexa’s spirit had chosen him as the next commander.

He is speaking to Clarke in urgent Trigedasleng, and Clarke is shaking her head. Bellamy recognizes a few words here and there, but he can’t process anything right now.

Clarke glances at him, and their eyes lock. Whatever she tells Aden next has him sighing. He turns to his horse to go, and Indra follows with one last glare in Bellamy’s direction.

Thunder booms overhead. He can see the gears turning in Clarke’s head, he can see the slight movement of her mouth as she counts the seconds. Anything to delay, anything from having to go back to the real world.

“If you need forgiveness,” he begins, when the rain starts to feel like ice against his skin. It is their mantra, their prayer, their anthem. It’s a promise between them that can never be broken. It’s a reminder, that who they are and who they need be to survive are two very different things. It’s a reminder, that they are not alone. “I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven.”

They’ve both done terrible things - they’ve killed more people than they can count. Both of their backs aren’t big enough for all the kill marks they’ve earned. They are the only one’s who can forgive each other, because they are two sides of the same coin. They are both Orpheus and they are both Eurydice; they take turns guiding the other out from the underworld.

He won’t ask her to come home again. He can’t go back there himself, after everything he’s done. He knows she understands.

They have been on the ground for half a year now - and they’ve been together for not even half of that. But it feels like ages, lifetimes, eons. He never wants to be apart from her again. He can’t lose her again. He wants their time apart to be just a page in their story, easily skimmed over and forgotten. Wherever she goes, he’ll follow.

She is his home now.

And he, her’s.

Clarke turns to look at him. The rain has smeared her warpaint - a mixture of red and black tears streaming down her cheeks. But Clarke doesn’t look sad; she looks resigned, she looks like she’s finally ready to wave her white flag.

“They say that when you kill someone, you get their power,” Clarke says and looks away again, down at the field of bodies - their third, their fourth, their latest. “But what happens if you kill yourself?”

_What happens when the Commander of Death commands it of themselves?_

The statement doesn’t rise concern in Bellamy. He knows what she means - she is tired. She is so, so tired, of all of this.

“I doubt it would change anything,” he says.

Clarke may die, but Wanheda won’t. Another would take her place, and the myth would outlive all of them.

The storm clouds are covering the sky, but she can see past them to the stars, back to the place where they were born, where they grew up.

“For once in my life.” When she says this, he knows she doesn’t mean their time in space. They hadn’t really started living until they started dying. “For the rest of my life, I just want to do something insignificant."

He feels her statement deep within his bones, between the cracks of his broken heart.

He sticks out his hand. “Together.”

This time he isn’t asking her to come back to all her ghosts, he’s asking her to let them go. To let him go with her.

Clarke turns back to him. They are broken, battered things; they have caused enough damage in this life, and the next. They are both done with playing the role of Atlas.

She takes his hand.

* * *

They don’t go back to Mount Weather, or the dropship, or the bunker. They are done looking back, of being surrounded by ghosts. They will try their best to leave the past behind them.

They head south, into uncharted territory. They needed to find a place where their demons won’t be able to follow.

They spend their first night in a cave, huddled together for warmth as their clothes dried by the fire.

They hadn’t packed, they had just left; despite not having many resources, they still strip themselves of things with that tie back to what they are leaving behind. Bellamy rips the guard insignia from his jacket. Clarke removes any decorations the court of Polis had attributed to her. They get rid of their guns. They fire them one last time, into the trees, so that no one else could use them.

She keeps her knife. He keeps his axe. They’ll need those until they either find or forge new ones.

On the second night, she places her knife in his hand.

“I need a haircut,” she tells him.

“How short?”

“I’ll tell you when to stop.”

He works at it in small chunks. He gets all the braids out, all the clumps of matted hair. In no time, there is a pile of blonde locks in the space on the cavern floor between them. Bellamy hesitates when it’s about the length it was when the first landed - just past her shoulder blades. She turns back at him and gives him a nod.

She’s not trying to revert back to that girl, she’s trying to become someone else.

He keeps cutting. It’s sloppy, with just the knife, but he tries to make it as even as possible. She places her hand on his to stop him when it floats just above her shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Bellamy hands her back her knife. “My turn?”

Clarke reaches up and runs her fingers through his dark curls. He can’t help but arch his neck back into her hand when it slides down there.

“If you want,” Clarke says, twirling the hairs at the nape of his neck between her fingers, “but I kinda like it like this.”

Bellamy swallows. “It can wait then.”

* * *

They don’t talk much. They know each other like the back of their own hands. They are in sync in their movements, in their agenda. They don’t need to talk, to instruct each other or let the other know what they are thinking, but the do that sometimes anyway when the silence becomes too much.

It’s comforting, to hear the sound of each other’s voices. Soft neutral questions that don’t have life or death consequences.

“You got the net?”

“Skinning or roasting duty?”

“Hardboiled or scrambled hawk eggs?”

They don’t converse at all. They never start a sentence off with “one time” or “remember when.” They aren’t ready for the past, they aren’t ready to remember without heartache.

When one of them wakes from nightmares in the middle night, they don’t talk about it. They just hold each other, murmur reassurances and sweet nothings, and try to back to sleep.

* * *

Clarke wears her hair up now, a ponytail bouncing around as they hike further south. Bellamy can gather his hair in a bun at the back of his head, too. The only thing that keeps him from cutting it is the way Clarke runs her fingers through it.

It’s hotter down here, and Bellamy doesn’t wear a shirt too often. He can’t help but notice the way Clarke keeps glancing at him, the red on her cheeks a blush from him and not a flush from the sun.

They find a river early in the afternoon on one hot day. The water is flowing slowly, glistening underneath the sun invitingly.

Clarke takes one glance at him before darting towards it. She’s already stripped down to her underwear by the time he gets there, and his mouth goes dry.

He’s seen Clarke in her underwear before, he’s even held her in this state of undress before. But this time he feels a flush creep up his cheeks, and feels a flutter in his gut.

Clarke hesitates a moment before jumping in - as if she’s checking for sea monsters or something. But he can see the exact moment she decides fuck it and dives right on in.

When she breaks the surface, her skin is shining more than the river. The thin fabric clings to her body, and there’s droplets of water scattered over the swell of her chest.

“You’re missing out!” She calls out to him, and he doesn’t need to be told twice before stripping down to his boxers.

He goes up to a rock along the bank and jumps in, causing a huge splash that leaves her spluttering.

“You asshole!” She splashes water at him and it gets right in his open mouth.

Bellamy wipes the hair out of his eyes. “Oh, it’s on.”

He jumps at her and pulls her under with him. They play chicken, this tug of war back and forth, splashing and dunking and pulling at each other.

Eventually they collapse side by side on the river bank, and despite being out of breath and having water filled lungs, they are laughing. They are honest to god laughing; the kind of laugh of that makes your chest hurt and your smile sear into your face.

He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this, or smiled for that longer. He assumes that whatever it is, it would be longer for Clarke. He only has one memory of her laughing - Unity Day, their first on the ground. He’d been walking by where she was, finally loosening up like he’d recommended, but he didn’t remember the sound.

The sound of Clarke’s laugh filled him with pure joy, it made his stomach flutter even more than the sight of her body had. The sound of Clarke’s laugh filled him with hope; the hope that maybe - just maybe - they were on the right track.

The river had been like an opening a door. Now they were smiling all the time, twin grins beaming at each other. They laughed so hard they cried, laughing all the time at the little things. They joked around with each other, teased each other a bit.

But sometimes those smiles would freeze and fall off their faces as they remembered. They remember the good times they had had, with those who they left behind, and with those who were long dead.

They still didn’t talk about it. They weren’t ready.

Not yet, anyways.

* * *

The first time they run into someone, they almost panic.

It’s just a woman with her two children washing by a stream. The woman’s head snaps up when she sees them, calls her children back to her.

She pulls out a knife, but then she speaks: “Who goes there?”

She says it English, but in an accent they hadn’t heard before.

“We’re just passing through.” Clarke says as she raises her hands to show she holds no weapon, “we don’t want any trouble.”

The woman’s eyes narrow. “What clan do you hail from?”

Clarke glances at Bellamy for a moment. “We belong to no one.”

The woman regards them a moment longer. She’s trying to place them, but this far south she probably doesn’t know what Skaikru look like, let alone even heard of them.

“You don’t want any trouble?” She gestures to the woods with her knife, “then keep moving.”

Bellamy and Clarke keep their hands up as they walk slowly past the woman and her children. When they are out of sight, they let out a relieved breath, and then break out into a run.

* * *

“That one right there?” Bellamy points up towards the sky, “that one’s Perseus. He’s like, the only demigod to have any form of a happy ending.”

Clarke squeezes his hand then, and snuggles into his side. He takes his other arm and puts his arm around her, pulling her in so her head is on his chest.

“And then - just follow my finger - a bit to the right there’s Polaris,” Bellamy runs his fingers through Clarke’s hair. “The north star.”

It’s a warm night - they didn’t even bother to make a fire. They just found a soft patch of grass to lie down upon.

“Oh look, a shooting star,” Clarke’s the one pointing now, and sure enough, for a second there’s this flash of light that streams across the sky. She turns to look up at him. “Do you know what to wish for?”

 _“I wouldn’t even know what to wish for.”_ He had told her once.

Bellamy lets out a deep breath, and turns to place a tentative kiss against her forehead. “I have a pretty good idea.”

Clarke hums in response. She brings a hand up to his face, one finger dancing over his skin.

“This one right here?” Clarke says, her finger near the corner of his mouth, “This one’s the King. He was a bit of rebel, he straightened himself out a some, but he’ll always be one at heart.”

Bellamy let out a small chuckle, proud to see it brought a grin to Clarke’s face.

“And this one - just follow my finger, okay?” Clarke moves her finger up his cheek, along that curved scar of his, to a spot below his eye. “This one’s Bell. The north freckle.”

Clarke licks her lips. “And it’s mine.” Slowly she pushes herself up just enough so that she can kiss his cheek there. Her lips are soft and warm, and sear into his skin.

She pulls back, and his eyes dart to her lips, and hers to his. She’s looking at him patiently, a bit expectantly.

But he doesn’t close the gap to kiss her.

Not yet, anyways.

* * *

They are out hunting a deer when it happens.

He motions with two fingers: _you go right, I’ll go left_. Clarke nods.

He hadn’t really expected the left side to be full of rocks, and the rain they got last night only made them slippery and loose. One of the rocks slides out from under his feet, but he manages to gain his balance. The clanking of the rock down the hill though sends the deer running, though, and Bellamy curses.

He’s putting his arrow back in his quiver when he hears it.

The crunch of twigs, the snort of breath - Clarke’s scream from across the clearing-

But it’s too late, by the time he turns around, the boar’s tusks rips into his side. He loses his footing on the rocks, and goes tumbling down the hill.

The last thing he hears before passing out is Clarke’s strained voice shouting: “BELLAMY!”

The last thing he sees before passing out is a black bird circling overhead.

* * *

He dreams of that black bird, but only now does he realize that the bird was a raven, when the feathers melt away to reveal her.

“Do you ever think about home?” She asks with no hint of malice, “Do you ever think about how they’re doing? Do you ever think of the people you’ve left behind?”

“All the time,” Bellamy says, and it’s the truth. Despite his best efforts, despite the blissful moments when his scars fade away, he always remembers - laughs, and lives, and last breaths.

“And you ever think about coming home?”

“They’re better off without us.” Bellamy sighs, “Clarke and I have caused enough damage there.”

“It’s still home.”

“There’s nothing for us there anymore.”

“What about me, huh?”

“You’re not there either,” Bellamy says. He feels a scratch in his throat, like sandpaper. He has never said it out loud before. “You’re dead, Raven.”

Raven snorts, but there’s no heat behind it, just resolve, “Yeah, but that’s not your fault.”

“I miss you,” he says, and it comes out in broken, strained pieces.

“I miss you too,” she says, “but you’re going to have to keep missing me, Blake. You aren’t dead yet.”

She flickers like a flame, fading and fading. He reaches out but she’s just smoke beneath his fingers.

“Gina wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry,” Raven’s voice is a million miles away, “and that she doesn’t blame you. Never did, not for a second.”

* * *

Bellamy groans, and there are hands on either side of his face in a split second.

“Oh thank God,” Clarke says. When his vision clears, he can see her tear soaked cheeks and red rimmed eyes, the fire flickering in them, “I was starting to worry- that you-”

“How long was I out?” Bellamy’s voice is scraggly, and Clarke immediately holds a cup of water to his lips.

“About twelve hours,” Clarke says, and places a firm hand on his chest, “and don’t even think about getting up anytime soon.”

“Then c’mere,” Bellamy says and holds out his arms, “you need to rest, too.”

Clarke looks reluctant, that little worrying of her lip gives it away, but she eventually snuggles down into his good side. She places her head on his chest, her hand coming up to ghost over the bandage.

“The boar had missed any vital organs,” Clarke says, and he can hear the crack in her voice, “but you had lost a lot of blood by the time I got you here.”

“I’m okay,” Bellamy strokes her hair, “I’m okay.”

Clarke starts crying silently. He can feel her tears against his chest, he can feel her shudders, and he rubs her back to comfort her. He knew if their positions were reversed, he wouldn’t be as contained as she was.

They are like that for a long time, when Clarke asks: “Do you ever think about them?”

He knows that she knows that he has, and he knows she’s not asking about those they left behind, but those they left in the ground.

_Finn. Maya. Gina. Lincoln. Harper. Jasper. Monroe. Lexa. Raven._

And the list goes on, and on, and on.

“I had a dream about Raven, when I was out,” he tells her, and he feels her go still, “she said it wasn’t my fault.”

“That’s because it wasn’t.”

“It isn’t yours, either,” he reminds her, and then sighs, “how come we can forgive each other but not ourselves?”

Clarke wipes away her tears with the back of her hand, “do you think we made the right decision? Leaving? That worked out so well for us the first time.” Bellamy lets out a low laugh, but there’s no humor in it. Clarke lets out a deep breath. “Do you think we can ever go back?”

“Do you want to go back?”

“I don’t know.” Clarke immediately replies, but then she pauses, and says, “...would they even want us to come back?”

“I don’t know the answer to that.” Bellamy sighs a deep sigh, “But to your other question? Yeah. Yeah, I think we could.” Bellamy holds onto her a little tighter. “If we… if we can forgive ourselves, one day, then maybe.”

He means it. One day, when their scars have faded and they’ve got a reign in on their ghosts, they could travel up north again. They could go back to Arkadia. He imagines them being unrecognizable, able to drift through the settlement unnoticed, just another pair of travellers passing through to trade. It would be reassuring, to see how much it has grown and prospered with their absence. If it was even still there, that is.

He knows that one day, maybe they can go back, but staying is a whole other thing. Even if they can forgive themselves, that doesn’t mean their people - their former people - have. They are as good as dead to them. It’s probably best that they remain that way.

 _“You’re dead to me!”_ Slips back into his memory, and he swallows the lump in his throat.

Yeah, it was for the best.

* * *

They take it slow for a while since Bellamy’s still recovering from his wound. It’s the longest they’ve ever stayed in one spot. The cave doesn’t start to feel like a home, but it feels safe enough.

It’s safe enough that they can talk about old wounds without opening them up again. The words echo slightly throughout the cave, but they don’t leave. Whatever is said stays there, like a moment frozen in time.

They tell each other stories; they start their sentences off with “one time” or with “remember when.” They remember the good times, and the bad. They mourn. They grieve.

They apologize. They forgive. They understand.

They bare their souls. And then, they move on.

* * *

It’s two days after Clarke takes his stitches out that they decide to keep moving. The cave had done them good, but they couldn’t hide out there, not forever.

There’s a lightness in the air that comes with tear soaked cheeks, with red rimmed eyes and with small smiles.

Bellamy’s humming along to a tune that brings him half a year, to a bumpy jeep full of smiling faces. The nostalgia doesn’t hurt, not like it used to. They both have good days and bad days, and for Bellamy, it’s one of the good ones.

_day after day_

_I will walk, and I will play_

_but the day, after today_

_I will stop, and I will stop_

The hill is rocky and uneven, and he isn’t paying too much attention to where is stepping. He’s lost in the memory, he’s still in the jeep.

_believe me, I’d know what to do_

_but something won’t let me make love to you_

His foot gets caught on a root, and he goes tumbling down the hill.

“Bellamy!” He hears Clarke coming towards him. She’s blurry in his vision, a blob of gold hovering above him, “Bellamy! Can you hear me?” Clarke moves his head to examine his wound, but it only sends his mind spinning.

_I guess it's got something to do with luck_

_But I waited my whole life for just one…_

“I can’t tell if the humming means you’ve got a concussion or not,” Clarke sounds both annoyed and worried, and he thinks that’s a standard response he illicites out of her, “you better not have a concussion, or I swear I’m going to-”

Bellamy sits up, rather abruptly, which not only surprises Clarke but he’s pretty sure he can just _felt_ his brain move inside his skull.

Clarke’s staring at him with wide eyes, unsure of what to do, trying to assess him.

“I’m about to do something pretty significant, sorry about that,” Bellamy says, and he’s honestly impressed that he can form a full sentence, despite it sounding like he’s underwater, “but I think the universe will see it as insignificant, all things considered.”

He takes her face in both hands and kisses her. It’s sloppy, because truth be told, he is probably concussed. But then she kisses him back, and he can feel her smile underneath his lips, and it’s perfect.

It’s more than he ever dreamed of, more than he could have ever imagined; kissing Clarke is like kissing the sun, like chasing life. She tastes of joy and love and forgiveness and hope.

Bellamy has loved Clarke for a long time, and he’s wanted to kiss her for even longer than that.

But he couldn’t. He hadn’t realized he loved her, or they were fighting, or she was with someone else, or there was a war going on.

Or he didn’t think he deserved a chance with her like this, not after everything he’s done. He could never be worthy of her until he could forgive himself. But Clarke had told him one night - one night that had been full of sobbing and screaming - about something her father had once said: _forgiveness isn’t about what people deserve_.

He doesn’t deserve forgiveness, but Clarke gave it to him. She will always give it to him. He doesn’t deserve to forgive himself, but if it means this - if it means the feel of Clarke under him, on a soft bed of grass, his hands in her hair, her hands on his back, and their lips on each other - if it means that Clarke is smiling - then he could. He could try.

He moves his mouth to kiss down her neck, sucking on her pulse point, and she moans. He grinds his thigh between Clarke’s legs, and that has her gripping on his back and flipping them over.

But she did the movement a little too roughly, and Bellamy’s head smacks against the ground.

“That one’s your fault,” Bellamy groans.

Clarke is laughing, that kind of laugh when something awful happens and you try to stop but just can’t, and soon enough Bellamy is laughing too.

* * *

They tell each other _I love you_ for the first time beneath the stars that night.

Saying it outloud was besides the point, they already knew. But they never got tired of hearing it.

* * *

They find the house months later, just before winter. It’s eerie, this little cottage in the middle of the forest, with vines and moss growing on almost everything and the door off it’s hinges, gaping like an open mouth. They hadn’t run into anyone in two months, probably, and that was miles back, so they venture inside.

Bellamy’s thankful they don’t find any skeletons.

The roof is partially caved in, and so is the second floor, but the staircase is intact. Picture frames lie at the bottom of the walls, their hooks having caved out. The pictures inside are yellowed beyond recognition. There’s evidence that animals have been around - the droppings, the dead mouse, the chew marks on the ancient sofa.

They were done being haunted by ghosts, and this house screamed mausoleum, but. With a little work they could fix it up; not good as new, but something just as great. It felt fitting, in a way.

The longest they had ever stayed in one place since leaving was when Bellamy had been impaled by that wild boar, in that cave where they finally opened up.

But he felt it, and he knew Clarke could feel it too. It was time to stop running, and start living.

* * *

They got to work immediately. Removing dead animal carcasses, removing the vines that had made their way into the house. They went through the furniture and things that were left behind, to see what could be salvaged or repurposed and what had molded or deteriorated beyond repair.

The bedsheets are full of holes, and the mattress has been burrowed into like a raccoon or something had made of nest of it at one point. They move those out of the way and splay their furs down on the frame.

It feels weird to sleep with manmade walls around them. There’s a draft, that has them shivering and huddling closer together beneath the furs. They lie awake for a long time, listening to the strange new sounds - the clanking of a shutter from the wind, the creak of the wood under them as they shift.

It doesn’t feel like home.

Not yet, anyways.

Bellamy’s clearing out around the house to make room for a garden when he sees it.

“Clarke!” He calls inside for her, “come check this out.”

She’s got dirt all over her face and Bellamy can’t help but kiss her.

Clarke laughs as he pulls away, “Is that all-”

“ _No_ ,” Bellamy says, dejectedly, “There’s a basement.”

Clarke’s eyes widen and looks down at the door. It’s chained shut and covered in rust.

“You got the axe?” Bellamy asks.

Clarke pulls it out from the back of her belt and hands it to him. It takes him a few swings, but the chains come off, and they yank the doors open with a bit of elbow grease.

Clarke coughs as cloud of dust comes bursting out. “After you.”

Bellamy covers his mouth with his shirt as he steps down into the cellar. The stairs are perfectly intact it seems. It’s dark, save for the light they’ve opened up. There’s this gross, sickly smell, like rotting - or rather after all this time, rotted - food. Other than that… everything looks pretty much intact.

There’s a couch that’s musty, but it hasn’t been eaten through (they’ll later discover that it’s a _pull-out_ couch, which amazes Bellamy, and therefore amuses Clarke). There’s tons of boxes, sealed with labels such as _clothes, books, non-perishable food, games, tools,_ and _misc_. It’s everything they need.

They dispose of the all the rotten food, and let it air out for a few days before moving into the cellar. It’s stronger, more enclosed, and doesn’t need to be cleaned. They’ll still work on fixing up the house above, but not it’s not as urgent. They’ll have a safe, warm place to live throughout the winter.

They set animal traps in the surrounding forest. They build a garden in the yard, planting what would go quickly. They build a well, they find a river and some berry bushes not to far by.

Clarke finds a soccer ball, and she teaches Bellamy how to play. Bellamy finds the books, and reads them all aloud to Clarke, even the silly childrens ones.

Clarke finds a pair of goggles, and her breath catches - but she doesn’t cry.

One day while tending the garden, Bellamy sees a Raven perched on a tree branch. He gives it a wave, and it flies away.

* * *

Clarke gets pneumonia that winter, and Bellamy is so worried he’s pulled out chunks of his hair. She makes it though; they make it.

The snow melts, and when the flowers bloom, it’s the most breathtaking sight they’ve ever seen. A sea of purple poppies surrounding them.

Bellamy can’t help but think: _Octavia would love this_.

They’ve been gone over a year now, his sister even longer than that.

Then they have been gone for two. Then three.

* * *

_“Do you think we can ever go back?”_

_“Do you want to go back?”_

_“I don’t know… would they even want us to come back?”_

_“I don’t know the answer to that. But to your other question? Yeah. Yeah, I think we could. If we… if we can forgive ourselves, one day, then maybe.”_

* * *

It strikes him that Clarke is still younger than he was when they first got to the ground. They don’t know what the date is, but thanks to the passing of the seasons, he knows she can only be twenty-one at most. He, twenty-six.

Octavia would be around twenty. He can’t help but think of her often: where she is, what she’s doing, is she alright?

Has she forgiven him?

That is the one thing he cannot forgive himself for: Lincoln, and Octavia. His life started the day his sister was born, and if he was dead to her, then he was as good as dead.

Clarke comforts him, but this is something she cannot even fix. He doesn’t know why, after all these years, the dreams of his sister only grow stronger. Sometimes, she is being born. Other times, she is punching him, screaming at him and disowning him. Most of the time though, she is just walking; she is hiking through the Mountains, alone. She doesn’t talk to him, she doesn’t even look at him; it’s like he’s not even there.

* * *

He wakes in the morning to the sound of retching.

“Clarke?” He sits up in bed, his hand over the spot she should have been in.

She’s hunched over in the corner, throwing up into a bucket. All the drowsiness dissipates in a split second, and he is at her side, holding her hair back.

There wasn’t much in the bucket - she was mostly dry heaving, gasping and choking. Bellamy pats her back, rubs circles, anything to try to comfort her - but it doesn’t really work. She isn’t able to stop for what feels like forever.

Clarke sits back on her heels, and moves to get up, but Bellamy places a hand on her arm.

“You need to rest?”

“I’m fine now,” but Clarke’s voice betrays her.

“Do you even know what’s wrong?”

“Probably just something I ate.”

“We ate the same thing.”

Clarke sighs. “We’re going to hunt today.”

“That can wait.” Bellamy reassures her as he scoops her up and carries her back to their bed. “I’ll just check and reset the traps today. But you’re not going anywhere, okay?”

Clarke makes a noncommittal noise in protest, but soon she’s falling back asleep, exhausted.

* * *

 Clarke’s illness doesn’t let up. Every morning she’s hunched over a bucket. She can’t keep anything down later in the day either. She’s so tired and weak that she can barely walk.

He’s so worried he’s considering taking Clarke to the village. They have never been there, in all their years out here, but they’ve had travellers come through always either leaving there or on their way there.

Bellamy’s been doing the work around the house, but he never goes farther than their traps. He doesn’t like the idea of something happening and not being there.

And that’s what happens. He hears her just as he enters the garden, and he bolts, dropping the rabbits he had collected and flying down the stairs. He sees her near the bucket - but she’s not throwing up. She’s curled up into herself, sobbing.

“Clarke,” He’s at her side in an instant. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Clarke shakes her head, crying harder. He places a hand on her shoulder - and she flinches.

“Clarke?” He’s beyond worried now - _terrified_ -

“It - it shouldn’t b-be poss-possible,” Clarke manages to get, “it can’t be.”

“What shouldn’t be possible?” Bellamy pleads, “Clarke, please tell me what’s-”

Clarke grabs his hand then, and places it on her lower abdomen.

It takes him a minute, but he gets it.

“ _Bellamy…_ ”

He pulls her into a tight embrace then, because he is at a loss for words.

“We’ll figure it out, okay?” He says, and there are tears prickling at his eyes, too, “We’ll figure something out…”

* * *

They had fallen asleep like that, curled up together on the floor.

Bellamy was still having trouble wrapping his head around the whole thing: Clarke was _pregnant_.

“My implant - I completely forgot about it,” Clarke is no longer crying, her eyes too empty for any more of that, “It only lasts five years, and then it degrades, and-”

She’s trying to be cold and detached, in complete medical mode like she used too. But he can see how much this terrifies her, the very idea. A baby. A child. They have avoided responsibility here in their little corner of the world, and this is the ultimate one, and he knows it well.

 _Your sister, your responsibility_.

He can only imagine… being a parent. How could they do that? How could they bring another person into this world, this world that is so full of death and destruction and loss? How could they not screw up the life of their child, just like they have screwed everything else up?

_Their child._

He feels just as nervous and scared as Clarke does, but he can’t help also feel wonder. Sheer amazement, that his child - that _their_ child - is inside her right now. He can’t help but feel hope.

They have been harbingers of death for too long; maybe they could bring life into this world, too.

“I’m with you,” Bellamy says, and the steadiness of his voice actually surprises him, “whatever you decide, I am with you. Together, always.”

Clarke had told him, on their last battlefield, that _for the rest of my life, I just want to do something insignificant._ There is nothing insignificant about this.

Her hand is shaking when she takes his.

* * *

Bellamy didn’t think it was possible for him to become even more of a nervous wreck, but with Clarke pregnant, it totally was.

She was snapping at him more and more - and he understood that. She wanted to help, to be useful and normal - but Bellamy was hovering and it was driving her crazy. He couldn’t help it - every time she stumbled he was on her like a hawk.

Soon she would too big to protest going hunting with him. Those times were the worst, because he hated being away from her, but she couldn’t go, and they - especially her - needed better meat than rabbits and squirrels.

He didn’t even know how’d they handle it when their child - _their child!_ \- was born. If they could handle it, that was.

But he believed in them. They were still scared, but they had each other. They’d get through this, just like everything else they’ve gone through.

* * *

The first time the baby kicks, it sends Clarke into a panic attack. All the doubt and fear they had worked through came back like a flood.

Bellamy held her hand, his other on her stomach, large and round, and traced patterns.

The baby kicked again, and Bellamy felt it. He couldn’t help but beam at it in wonder.

His smile seemed to calm Clarke down, like it was a reminder of how _good_ this could - and would - be.

* * *

Bellamy has been debating whether or not he should journey to the village to find a midwife.

Clarke is firmly against it - she can’t travel, and that means he would have to go alone.

“I’ve delivered a baby before, Clarke, but I was _six_ ,” Bellamy sighs, “If something were to go wrong… I don’t know what…”

Clarke clutches his hand tighter. “ _No._ ” She insists with a fire, a determination, that makes her look eighteen again, “Everything will be fine - it _has_ to. You - you can’t leave.”

They had made a promise to each other, all those years ago: _I am not leaving again_.

And that promise came with an unspoken one: _Not without you, I won’t_.

“Okay,” Bellamy whispers, “Okay, I won’t go…”

If something were to happen though, he’d never be able to forgive himself. This would be the last straw, and they both know it.

It would be the last straw for both of them.

* * *

Sometimes, Bellamy will be working in the garden. He gathers what’s ripe, he pulls out all the weeds. Then he’ll look up, and he’ll see Clarke, big and round and glowing. She’ll be gently rubbing circles over her stomach, smiling to herself.

It’s moments like that that let Bellamy know that they’ll be alright.

* * *

Clarke goes into labor before dawn.

She wakes him up by gripping his hand tighter than she ever has - and he jumps into action.

He’s not six anymore; it’s been at least two decades since he’s done this. He can’t tell which scenario is worse - when he wasn’t sure what was happening, or now, when he does.

Clarke is talking him through what she knows, through her pants and groans. He wishes they had painkillers, or something _anything_.

But Clarke’s strong, he knows this and _she_ knows this.

Their son is born just after dusk.

Bellamy didn’t know that a cry could be so beautiful. Their son is tiny and pink and squalling in his arms, a messy mop of black hair on his head. Their son has all ten fingers, and all ten toes.

Clarke’s a bit delirious, but she still reaches out for their baby. Bellamy wraps their son - _their son_ \- in a small blanket. He goes to sit next to Clarke on the bed, slowly and carefully not to jostle her, and slides their baby into her arms.

Clarke’s eyes are as tear filled and as wide as his; what they are feeling, is just _unbelievable_.

Clarke holds her pinky up to stroke their son’s cheek, and their son takes her finger in his mouth.

And she laughs - this laugh that’s half crying but still full of unadulterated joy - and Bellamy can’t help but join in.

They have a baby. A son.

They’re _parents_.

* * *

“What should we name him?” Clarke asks, later, after Bellamy’s cleaned everything up.

Bellamy puts his arm around them - his _child_ , and the _mother of his child_ ; he will never not be amazed at those statements - and pulls them close.

Their son deserves a name all his own. Not a hand-me-down one they pulled off a gravestone. They have put the past behind them, and they won’t have him be a reminder of that.

_“You have a sister.” His mother had said, handing him the little bundle, “You should name her.”_

_Bellamy held the baby, his sister in his arms. She was looking up at him with wide, wondering eyes as she sucked on his finger. “Augustus had a sister.” He decided. “Octavia.”_

“Augustus,” Bellamy says. Augustus may have been someone, thousands of years ago. And he may have been in wars and battles, but he was not someone who was lost. He was someone who provided wonder and _escape_.

Clarke gives him a small smile. She knows the origin of his sister’s name, she knows the connection.

Clarke nods, and looks back down at their son, “ _Augustus_.”

“Is it Augustus Griffin-Blake, or Augustus Blake-Griffin?”

Clarke laughs, “I don’t think we have a use for last names anymore.”

“Just Augustus, then. Or Gus.”

“I like the sound of that.”

* * *

Clarke’s back on her feet in no time. She knows she has to take it easier, for her and Augustus’ sake. She keeps him strapped to her chest in this sling that Bellamy had fashioned.

Bellamy always hunted quickly, because he couldn’t stand to be away from them for too long. Sometimes, he felt that if he was gone too long, Augustus would disappear like a dream.

But both of them were always there when he returned. Clarke would greet him with a smile and a kiss, and let him hold their son as she rattled off all the weird things he had done while he was gone.

He loved lounging around at night, them lying on the bed, with Augustus between them. Bellamy would read aloud, and Clarke would play with him.

That night after putting Augustus to sleep, he kissed her a little harder, and she responded eagerly, rolling him on top of her.

They were a family, had been for a while. But there was something else about their family being more than just _them_.

* * *

Clarke has a nightmare, and it wake ups Augustus. Clarke is crying as she tries to calm down their wailing son.

He takes Augustus from her, bouncing the baby against his shoulder as he wraps his other arm around Clarke and pulls her close.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,” he whispers, “it’s going to be alright.”

“I’m going to screw this up- what if he turns out like _me_ -”

He presses a kiss down onto her hair. “Clarke-”

“He looks like you,” Clarke sniffles, “He looks just like a little you - I want him to be like you.”

He hates this, these moments where they are pulled back. “Well, I want this kid to be like you, Clarke. I want him to be kind and smart and resourceful; I want him to be stubborn and passionate and everything else I love about you. Whether it’s a fault or not.” He gives her a squeeze. "This kid is going to have the best parts of both of us, okay? And some of the bad, yes. But he’ll be better than we were. He needs you.”

Clarke wipes away the tears from her eyes. “Can I hold him?”

Bellamy passes their son to her. She holds him tight, rocking him, rubbing circles onto his back.

He can hear her whisper, over and over again: _I love you I love you I love you_.

* * *

Augustus’ first word was _bell_ and Bellamy felt as if his smile was going to break his face in two. He couldn’t stop saying it, he’d wave his little fat arms around chanting _bell bell bell bell_ until it devolved into gibberish.

“I’m sure he’ll be saying _mom_ soon,” Bellamy teases when he sees Clarke’s slight pout. Despite that, he can see the thrill in her eyes in response to the word _mom_.

But then Augustus makes a noise, and it did not come from his mouth.

“He knows you, you change him,” Clarke says with a smirk. She plants a kiss on his cheek before leaving the room.

Bellamy uses one hand to hold his nose up, and the other to gingerly pick up his son. “You’re getting potty trained, whether you like it or not.”

* * *

The first time Augustus walks - he _runs_. He wobbles on two legs across the garden towards them, and trips, falling onto the tomatoes and screaming bloody murder.

They get a lot of firsts: first snow, first swim, first time petting an animal, first solid food.

It’s a nice change, being a part of someone’s _firsts_ instead of someone’s _lasts_.

* * *

On the day that they are _pretty sure_ that Gus is a year old, they take him up to a ridge to get a better view of the stars. Bellamy tells him all about the constellations and their stories until he falls asleep.

Some days they still can’t believe that this is all real. But it is.

* * *

There had been kids clothes in the house, and Bellamy and Clarke honestly never expected them to need them. They had just sat there, too small to be of use, to be repurposed. But they had use now.

Some of the things were a little big, but Bellamy was able to tailor everything. He was rusty, but the skill his mother had taught him would never go away.

They would have to go to the village to trade eventually, though. What they had would only fit him until he was four at most - not even Bellamy would be able to alter that.

There’s a lot that they can’t provide for him in their little cabin in the woods.

_“Do you think we can ever go back?”_

That’s still a question for another time.

* * *

Augustus is sitting on his lap as Bellamy tells him the story of Odysseus. He doesn’t need a book for that. He knows all the tales by heart.

Clarke is sitting in the chair, sketching them. Their walls are covered in her sketches, they’re of him, and of Augustus, and even their house.

“Okay Gus,” Bellamy whispers to his son the next morning, even though Clarke is out checking the traps, “We’re going to make a present for mommy.”

“Mommy?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy knows that that is the only word his son understood. “We’re going to draw mommy a picture.”

His son knows what drawing is, thankfully. It’s very crude: Clarke has rabbit ears, but her hair is blonde at least; for Bellamy, he made him twice the size as Clarke. Of course Augustus drew _himself_ just fine.

“Not bad,” He ruffles Gus’ hair, just as curly and unruly has his father's. He spots Clarke coming out of the woods through the window and points to her. “Why don’t you go give this to her?”

Gus’ face lights up when he sees Clarke. “Mommy mommy mommy mommy-!”

He’s definitely a runner.

Clarke scoops him up as he reaches her, propping him up on her hip. Gus frantically waves the paper in her face, and she laughs as she struggles to snatch it from him.

Bellamy leans against the doorway and watches them. He can see Clarke’s face light up as she looks at the picture. She places a big kiss to Gus’ head, and she gives Bellamy one to the lips as she passes him into the house.

* * *

Bellamy is on a hunt when he hears footsteps in the woods. They’ve gotten passers by, sure, but it never fails to put him on edge.

He turns, pointing his bow and arrow at the person, “Who-”

All the air leaves his lungs.

“Octavia.”

The name tastes familiar, even after all this time. She looks older, harsher, sharper; her clothes are still in Grounder style, but he doesn’t recognize what clan it belongs too. Her hair is just as long as before, only with more braids.

She eyes him up and down. “Nice bun.” She snorts.

Bellamy just stutters, he can’t believe - his sister, his sister is here. He lowers his weapons.

“How… What are you doing here?” He must be dreaming, right? Fell down another ridge and knocked himself out.

“Just passing through,” O shrugs, “heard you from a while away, you should work on that.”

She takes a step, and Bellamy jerks in her direction.

“O…” He reaches a hand out, but she shies away from it.

“It’s been years, Bellamy okay? I don’t hold anything against you anymore, but if you think-”

“I was going to say,” Bellamy says, much calmer than he expected. His sister is trying to leave, and yeah, she can leave. He could live with just this moment, a split second of confirmation that she was alive, but. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

* * *

He feels Octavia stiffen beside him when she spots Clarke. It’s only the back of her head, as she tends to the garden, but Octavia doesn’t have to think about who that blonde head belongs to.

He knows that when she left, she was on better terms with Clarke than with him, but still.

They get to the garden wall though, and that’s when Clarke turns around.

Bellamy wonders if the expression on Clarke’s face when she sees Octavia is the one that Bellamy had had on his.

None of them have much time to say anything though, because Augustus stumbles out from behind Clarke, his entire fist shoved in his mouth.

Octavia gives a sharp intake of breath, and turns to him.

Bellamy nods.

* * *

“How old is he?” Octavia asks, from her spot at their kitchen table.

“About a year and half,” Bellamy says.

She keeps looking out at the garden at Clarke and Augustus. And Clarke keeps glancing over at them, torn between curious worry and wanting to give them some privacy.

Octavia licks her lips. “What’s his name?”

“Augustus.”

He lets it hang there between them. It feels like an apology, in a way.

“I,” Octavia shifts uncomfortably, “I still miss him. I still think about him all the time.”

“Octavia…”

“I understand what happened,” she says, “but it’s a little hard to forgive you if you’re not there.”

“You left before I did.”

“But I came back,” Octavia snaps, “and you weren’t there.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “We couldn’t stay.”

“I know the feeling.”

They sit in silence for a while. Part of him wishes that Clarke would come inside, diffuse some of the tension, but the last time he had been alone with his sister? She had given him a beating and screamed: _You’re dead to me!_ He wanted a bigger memory to replace that with.

“I hadn’t been looking for you,” Octavia begins again, “but whenever Luna needed someone to go to a different clan - I’d take it.”

“That place still doesn’t feel like home, anyway,” she adds, after a moment.

For the first time, he feels a lump forming in his throat. “I missed you.” His voice cracks on the last word.

Octavia pauses for a moment, but then she slides her hand across the table to touch his. It is their first touch in nearly five years.

“I missed you too, big brother.”

* * *

Octavia stays with them - she’s not due back for a while. She and Clarke talk, and she gets to get to know their son - her nephew.

Gus can’t say Octavia, only something that seems like oak-key. He also seems to enjoy pulling and chewing on her braids.

“Yeah,” Octavia snorts, and rolls her eyes, “he’s definitely your son.”

He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop though - for her to leave, at any moment. He knows she will.

“So -” Clarke asks one night, after they have put Gus to bed. She sounds nervous, “you’ve been back to Arkadia.”

Octavia takes a glance at him before answer. “Only a few times, about once a year, if Luna needs something.”

“How - how is everyone?”

Octavia pauses. And this, Bellamy thinks, is that other shoe.

But then she says something unexpected: “I think you should go see for yourself.”

He makes eye contact with Clarke, and as always, he knows exactly what she’s thinking.

_“Do you think we can ever go back?”_

_“Do you want to go back?”_

_“I don’t know… would they even want us to come back?”_

_“I don’t know the answer to that. But to your other question? Yeah. Yeah, I think we could. If we… if we can forgive ourselves, one day, then maybe.”_

He’s still thinking about that that night, after Octavia has gone off outside to go to bed. After all this time, she still can’t sleep inside.

He’s standing over Gus, watching the little guy sleep. Clarke comes up beside him, and takes his hand in hers.

“Do you think it’s time?” she asks, barely a whisper.

It’s not a question of whether it’s safe or not - he knows that if there was a war brewing, that Octavia would never have suggested them going back. The question is an old one, one he has asked himself many times: _have they forgiven themselves?_

He reaches down with his other hand to brush his fingers through their sons hair and - and yeah.

It was time.

* * *

Octavia doesn’t come with them. 

“I still have business to take care of for Luna."

Bellamy hugs her when it’s time, and it takes Octavia a moment to hug him back.

“May we meet again.”

He pretends not to notice the crack in Octavia’s voice when she says it back.

* * *

They pack up a lot with them. The drawings, some books, clothes, food, toys. They act like they may return one day, but Bellamy has a feeling in his gut that says that’s not the case.

He carries most of the stuff. Octavia had helped them make a better sling for Gus, which was more like a backpack that he could sit in. Clarke carried him, and Gus busied himself by playing with his mother’s hair.

It would take them nearly three weeks to get back to Arkadia. Much shorter than their initial journey that led them to the house, but now they had a destination in mind.

They were scared - for themselves and for Gus. But, they had to do this; they had to do this for him just as much as themselves.

* * *

Arkadia is four times the size as it was when they last saw it. It’s buildings aren’t as tall as the one’s in Polis, but it is vast, and thriving, and takes their breath away.

They pull their hoods up over their heads. Clarke takes his and and doesn’t let go.

There is no closed gate, but an open one - people coming and going, trading, dressed in a variety of clothes. There are streets, and two story houses, and a park with children playing, shops, and dogs.

There’s a tree in the main square, a small one, just like what was worshiped back on the ark. Bellamy doesn’t even need to look closer to know that it’s a memorial.

They continue to walk the streets relatively unnoticed - there are so many people, they don’t recognize anyone.

They pass a butcher, and a seamstress, and what Bellamy thinks is a school house.

They stop in front of a flower shop. It’s boxes full and bursting with life.

“Can I help you?” A little girl with pigtails is pulling on Bellamy’s pants leg. She’s only got two teeth. She sounds eager and practiced.

“Priscilla,” They hear someone coming out from inside the shop, and Bellamy’s ears perk up at the voice. “what did I tell you about-”

“Monty.” Clarke blurts out when she sees who it is.

There is one beat, one blink, as their old friend takes them in. And then he charges them, wrapping them both in a big hug. Which, is difficult both when he’s only got one arm, and when there’s a child strapped to Clarke’s back.

“Clarke-” Monty stutters as he pulls back, “Bellamy, You’re-”

Gus laughs, and Monty finally notices the other person in their party, and his eyes grow even wider.

Monty shakes his head, and grabs Bellamy’s wrist. “Come inside.”

* * *

“The school gets out soon, and then Nate should be home,” Monty tells them. “He’ll be so happy to see you guys.”

It feels kind of surreal, to be sitting here with Monty again, their children playing on the rug next to them.

They exchanged stories, catching up like old times. They told him about Gus, and their house, and their journey south. Monty told them about how Nate taught English at the school, about the flower shop, about adopting Priscilla after her mother had died in childbirth; he tells them about getting used to only having one hand.

“You’re…” Clarke begins, tentatively, when they felt caught up, “you’re not mad at us? For leaving?”

Monty gives them a small smile and shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, “Nate was a little upset at first, but I got him to understand like I did. It’s what you both needed. I’m glad you guys got to do something for yourselves for a change.”

Bellamy can’t take his eyes off the kids on the rug, playing with a wooden train. Gus has never interacted with another child before, and it’s kind of blowing his mind.

“How’s… Is my mother...?” Clarke asks, even more hesitant this time.

But Monty’s smile doesn’t falter. “Dr. Abigail Griffin-Kane, still head of medical.” Monty locks eyes with her, insistent. “She’ll want to see you. She asks Octavia every time she comes if she’s seen you.” His eyes flicker to Bellamy. “Both of you.”

Clarke starts crying, and Bellamy puts an arm around her, presses a kiss into her hair.

“Mommy?” Bellamy looks down, and Gus is tugging on Clarke’s pant leg, looking up at them with wide, concerned eyes.

Clarke wipes her tears away, and scoops him up into her lap.

“I’ll give you a moment,” Monty says as he gets up, “Come on, Priscilla, let’s go wait outside for Dad.”

Gus is looking at them curiously, wanting to understand. He’s barely two years old.

Clarke strokes the back of her hand along their son’s cheek. He lets out a soft giggle. Clarke sighs.

In this moment, he knows that they’ll never see that house again. The place they had found that had become their escape, their salvation, their safe haven. It was the place that their son was born.

But it wasn’t home. It wasn’t a home like this place was. Talking to Monty again, their friend - it was worth more than everything they had run from. And it wasn’t a place they could raise him - they couldn’t keep him in isolation like they had wanted to keep themselves. He deserved more than that.

“We’ll figure it out.” He tells her. He knows she has come to the same conclusion that he has.

Clarke looks up at him, and her small smile is everything. “Together.”

* * *

  _Now I'm alive_  
_and my ghosts are gone_  
_I've shed all the pain_  
_I've been holding on_  
_The cure for a heart_  
_Is to move along, is to move along_  
_So move along_  
_What don't kill a heart_  
_Only makes it strong_  
_It's the End where I_  
_End where I  
__End where I begin_

 **\- The End Where I Begin** ; The Script

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out over on [tumblr](http://bellakeyblake.tumblr.com)!


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